32 Short Films About Lorelai Gilmore
by allotrope
Summary: Lorelai waits to be found. Complete.
1. One

Title: **Thirty-Two Short Films About Lorelai Gilmore **

Author: Allotrope

Disclaimer: If I were Amy Sherman-Palladino, I'd have a better CD collection and look good in hats. But I'm not and I don't, and these characters are obviously not mine.

A/N: Thanks to everyone who's read and/or reviewed.

--

**Chapter One**

--

The first time Lorelai Gilmore leaves through her bedroom window -- really leaves, shimmies down the old oak tree conveniently located next to her balcony's stone ledge and leaps the last few feet to the packed mulch of her mother's flowerbed -- she is fourteen years old.

The party she's run to isn't worth the careful application of kohl, the clouds of AquaNet, the exhumation of the Bangles t-shirt she usually hides in the satin sailor hat of her biggest, creepiest doll. Lorelai exits early. She chucks her cup (filled with a drop or two of everything in Jimmy Caulfield's parents' liquor cabinet) and grabs her jacket.

She spends a few hours just walking. She'd woken up that morning to a shift in the weather: the gauzy gray sky and mineral scent in the air that herald the first snow. Plus, she hasn't thought too hard about the mechanics of climbing _up_ the tree. (Gravity: What a bummer.)

The next morning, her mother tells her to stand up straight, to go back and actually brush her hair this time, to not insist on wearing that ridiculous jacket with the iron-on patches. For once, Lorelai has nothing to say: She squares her shoulders; she lets Emily run a comb through her carefully teased bangs; she grabs her old pea coat as she rushes out the door. None of it matters anymore. She's cracked the code, solved the puzzle. She's free.

--

The last time Lorelai Gilmore leaves through her bedroom window, she's carrying a backpack that holds her Bangles t-shirt, her jacket with the iron-on patches, and clinking jars of baby food nestled against a pack of disposable diapers.

Her daughter sleeps against her chest in the nearly outgrown Snugli, as pale and perfect as a china doll. Lorelai's got three changes of clothes, her complete set of days-of-the-week underwear, and a wad of cash that represents three years' worth of birthday checks. Rory's stroller is jammed in the privet hedge near the front gate, waiting.

--

In between, there's Christopher.

"It wouldn't be so bad, would it?" he asks, while they sit on the stairs and listen to their parents scream at each other in the drawing room.

"So your lobotomy, it was outpatient?"

"Lor?"

"I mean, I saw you yesterday, we agreed on the whole united front thing, and now...." She shakes her head. "Have you and Richard negotiated my bride price yet? Because even in my gently used state, I'm worth a hell of a lot of goats."

Christopher snakes an arm around her shoulders and pulls her closer. "It'll be easier," he says softly. "It's what they want."

The morning sickness hasn't been bad so far, but suddenly it's all Lorelai can do not to puke on her Vans. Her father still won't look her in the eye, her mother's too busy figuring out how to break news of her shame to the garden club, and her boyfriend's been replaced with Folgers Crystals.

And, sadly, a martini is now absolutely out of the question.

--


	2. Two

Title: **Thirty-Two Short Films About Lorelai Gilmore **

Author: Allotrope

Disclaimer: If I were Amy Sherman-Palladino, I'd have a better CD collection and look good in hats. But I'm not and I don't, and these characters are obviously not mine.

A/N: Thanks to everyone who's read and/or reviewed.

--

**Chapter Two**

--

"Tell me a story," Rory says, bouncing with anticipation and probably a little Triaminic buzz. She's been miserable for three days, less from the strep throat -- rainbow sherbet has remarkable curative powers -- than missing kindergarten. But she's finally feeling better, just in time for bed, and Lorelai knows which tale she's after.

"Would you like to hear about...the pri-i-i-incess?" she drawls, feigning innocence. At this, Rory squeaks, but her mother presses on. "Or perhaps I could do an interpretive dance about the Dow Jones average?" Lorelai flails her arms for dramatic effect: "It's up! It's down! It's boring! Woooo!"

Her audience giggles. "There was a princess, Mom."

"Right. A beautiful princess named Victoria, heiress to the kingdom of Lacoste."

"She had nice hair," Rory says very seriously.

"She had lovely hair, dark and shiny and perfectly straight or perfectly curly, depending on the royal preference. Sometimes crimped, but even princesses can overdo that one. Anyway, Victoria lived with her parents--"

"The king and the queen."

"In a castle with stone walls as thick as the princess was tall, and a lot of things she was not allowed to touch. The king busied himself rearranging the piles of royal gold, and the queen oversaw the gardens and the foot servants and bought the princess dresses made by the Marquis of Neiman."

"But the princess hated dresses," Rory says, furrowing her brow.

"The queen didn't, and that was the problem. The princess wanted to wear jeans and listen to very loud music and visit neighboring lands, because the castle was lonely. And then one day, in the castle garden, Victoria saw a tiny basket hidden in the daisies. And in the tiny basket was an even tinier baby, a fairy baby with delicate wings and cheeks the color of rosebuds. When the princess picked her up, she smiled."

"And the princess knew."

"She would take the baby. They would leave the castle and see neighboring lands and listen to loud music and wear jeans whenever they wanted to. They would never be lonely. They left that night, and soon found a castle of their own -- which while much smaller than their old castle, took less time to clean."

"They lived happily ever after," Rory whispers, burrowing under her covers. "Right, Mom?"

"Right, my genius child. Sleep tight."

--


	3. Three

Title: **Thirty-Two Short Films About Lorelai Gilmore **

Author: Allotrope

Disclaimer: If I were Amy Sherman-Palladino, I'd have a better CD collection and look good in hats. But I'm not and I don't, and these characters are obviously not mine.

A/N: Thanks to everyone who's read and/or reviewed, here and at the TWoP Gilmore Girls forum. Feedback makes me happy like Lorelai discovering Turkish coffee. (Now _there's _ a scene...)

--

**Chapter Three**

--

Lorelai waits to be found.

She talks her way into a maid's job at the Independence Inn, an employer she chooses for its name -- and because three days into her grand adventure, she's already spent half a birthday's worth of cash on a bus ticket, milk, and a motel room.

She scans the Hartford paper each morning for any mention of runaway Gilmores and flinches slightly whenever she encounters a TV tuned to the local news. Mia must notice, but she doesn't ask questions.

A month passes before Lorelai drafts a short, cryptic note to Christopher on a guest-room postcard. He should know where his daughter is, she tells herself. Six weeks later, a battered airmail envelope arrives at the front desk: Christopher's reply from Phuket, where he's feasting on curries and hiding from Straub, Francine, and Princeton, in that order. "You should come," reads his scrawled postscript. "Thailand rocks."

His words stay with her as she scrubs, vacuums, and polishes her way into winter. When the leaf-peeping season ends, before the waves of Revolutionary War re-enactors begin to arrive, Lorelai again sits down with pen and paper. But what spills out is not what she's planned -- a witty, heavily expurgated recounting of the fall of the House of Gilmore addressed to an American Express office near the Khao San Road.

Instead her pen traces the same words again and again, to the rhythm of whistling little snores from the crib across the room. "We're okay," she writes. "We'll be fine." And they will: Lorelai has plans. The local thrift shop has yielded winter coats for both of them, along with an old eyelet-trimmed top sheet she's hemming into curtains for their rustic studio apartment, _nee _potting shed. Rory's walking. They've spent four months on their own, and no one has scurvy. (Yet.)

So with shaking hands, she recopies her mantra onto fresh stationery. Then, before she quite realizes what's happening, the words "Merry Christmas" leap from her pen.

Ignoring this obvious instance of demonic possession, Lorelai signs her name and addresses an envelope to Hartford.

--


	4. Four

Title: **Thirty-Two Short Films About Lorelai Gilmore **

Author: Allotrope

Disclaimer: If I were Amy Sherman-Palladino, I'd have a better CD collection and look good in hats. But I'm not and I don't, and these characters are obviously not mine.

A/N: Thanks to everyone who's read and/or reviewed. I'm thinking seven(-ish) chapters, so theoretically, this is the home stretch.

**--**

**Chapter Four **

--

Sookie, being Sookie, brews Lorelai doll cups of espresso and French roast with chicory. But Lorelai, being Lorelai, likes her coffee plain, strong, and in large quantities. In the six months since she and Rory relocated to Stars Hollow proper, Lorelai's come to depend on Luke for her ritual cup of joe.

Today, unfortunately, he's not cooperating. "You've had so much coffee you're practically vibrating," Luke says. "And peppermint tea is festive as well as healthy." There's a glint in his eye as he resumes wiping down the ancient flecked Formica.

"What are you, the Stars Hollow representative of the Women's Christian Temperance Union?" Lorelai protests, her voice rising in desperation. "Duke, my friend, caffeine isn't a lifestyle choice, it's a biological imperative."

"Your friend?"

"My good Samaritan, in this, my hour of greatest need. Rory, tell the nice man about Mommy's hour of greatest need."

"We're going to see my grandparents," Rory says. "For their Christmas party."

"Or as I like to call it, _Whatever Happened to Baby Jesus?_" Lorelai says, staring longingly at the pristine mugs dangling from wall pegs just beyond her reach.

"It's that bad?"

Sensing hesitation, she moves in for the kill. "Oh, no -- it's bright and sunny and bears a remarkable resemblance to an audioanimatronic Cheever novel."

Luke looks her in the eye long and hard before reaching for a mug. "One cup, and then I'm cutting you off. And no coffee for the kid."

"Duke," Lorelai says, taking her first rapturous sip, "you're my favorite cranky diner guy in all of Stars Hollow."

--

Ten apple tarts and two cups of eggnog later, things start unraveling.

Emily's words are tiny daggers expertly thrown. "I don't know what possessed you to tell Sissy Hotchkiss you and Rory are in the federal witness protection program--"

"It was a joke! She asked me where I've been hiding all these years, and your eggnog's so potent I'm afraid that if I get near a candle I'll become a human flamethrower." Which might be a welcome distraction at this point, Lorelai thinks, watching the kitchen staff scurry for cover.

"Are you drunk, Lorelai, or just out of your mind?"

"Pleasantly relaxed. Because, oddly enough, I had the impression this was a party, where even Sissy Hotchkiss -- or dare I say it, Emily Gilmore -- could relax the lockjaw for one night--"

"She was offended," her mother says, voice rising. "And I have to see her Monday, at the Friends of the Zoo board meeting--"

"Lions, tigers, and bears, oh my!"

"She's on the hospital ball committee and she's chairing this year's library drive. For God's sake, Lorelai, she hasn't seen you in ten years. She was just trying to make small talk."

"Except there is no small talk at your parties, Mom. Your old friends ask about Christopher and your new friends look at me and then at Rory and try not to count with their fingers as they do the math."

"Whatever grudges you hold against your father and me need not be extended to our entire circle of friends and neighbors." Emily's voice is steel. "I wanted to share my holidays with my daughter and granddaughter, but clearly that was a mistake."

The room grows still, silent but for the murmuring dishwasher and the muffled laughter emanating from the drawing room. After a long moment, Lorelai speaks. "I'm sorry," she says quietly. "Can we just stop now? This thing we have is already broken."

Her words carry the weight of truth, and already she regrets them. The harsh kitchen light reveals Emily to be smaller than Lorelai remembers. Older.

"I'll have Clothilde get your coats," her mother says. "You should go find Rory."

As Emily squares her shoulders and strides out of the kitchen, Lorelai is left to wonder what the hell just happened.

--


	5. Chapter 5

Title: **Thirty-Two Short Films About Lorelai Gilmore**

Author: Allotrope

Disclaimer: If I were Amy Sherman-Palladino, I'd have a better CD collection and look good in hats. But I'm not and I don't, and these characters are obviously not mine.

Thanks to everyone who's read and/or reviewed.

NOTE: This chapter is now complete.

--

**Chapter Five **

--

Lorelai doesn't laugh when they start chanting, or when they try to breathe through their eyeballs. She doesn't laugh when her classmates -- Babette, Gypsy, and Rory's math teacher among them -- raise their arms and pretend to be mountains, or sink to the floor and writhe like snakes.

But then Miss Patty starts instructing them in the art of the headstand. The thin, rabbity woman to Lorelai's left -- the woman whose bones, Lorelai decides, have been replaced with Silly Putty -- glances at Lorelai's Ramones t-shirt, monkey socks and rubberband adorned with pink plastic gumballs, offering her best threat grin. Smile from the nose down, ice from the eyes up: Lorelai was raised by a past master of that smile, knows it cold.

In retrospect, everything seems clear: How the grin had set Lorelai off balance, how the monkey socks were too slippery on Patty's studio's smooth wood floors, how Lorelai hadn't consumed nearly enough caffeine to keep the _om shanti shanti_ from provoking giggles at just the wrong instant.

But in the moment, all Lorelai knows is that up is down and down is up and things that aren't ever meant to bend are experiencing unhealthy amounts of torque. And then she hears the sickening crack and feels the blood rush from her head.

"Sweetie, you stay still," Patty says in a thin, high voice as she grabs the studio's cordless with one hand and shushes Babette with a sharp glare. "Don't move. Everything's going to be just fine."

And after she reaches the emergency room and receives her first dose of Demerol, Lorelai actually believes it.

--

Six hours later, she's back in her living room, arrayed on the lumpy oatmeal-colored couch with the phone, remote and a glass of water within reach. The house is strangely quiet -- Babette and Rory have run to the drug store for painkillers, trashy magazines and Twizzlers. Her leg is beginning to ache and throb against its thick plaster cast.

Lorelai picks up the phone, idly tracing patterns around the plastic chiclet buttons. Later, she'll blame this on the prescription narcotics, but for now, she just dials.

Christopher.

--

"Yoga?"

"You get to wear cute pants and learn how to put your foot behind your head," she says, only slightly defensive. "How could I resist?"

Chris laughs, low and familiar. "Everybody needs a parlor trick."

Lorelai closes her eyes, her drug-induced haze pierced by something she can't immediately identify. Nostalgia, maybe. A vivid mental image of Christopher's get-out-of-jail-free smile -- the one that charmed school secretaries and spinsterish English teachers and even Emily Gilmore, on occasion. Such a _nice_ boy, that Christopher Hayden, that look said. Such good breeding. (And there, Lorelai thinks, is their root problem: such good breeding, and a little too much of it.)

She drifts in and out of something like sleep, lulled by tales of Christopher's latest attempt at 9-to-5 living, this time as a venture capitalist in Pasadena. They talk for nearly an hour, until Babette comes bounding through the back door, shaking Lorelai's newly procured bottle of pain pills like a maraca.

--

He calls the next day, and the day after that: the beginnings of a pattern that strengthens as summer turns to fall. By the time the first frost crisps the air, Chris calls almost every day and is floating a trip east for Rory's birthday.

A surprise, he says, and Lorelai agrees, ignoring the little voice telling her it'll never happen.

Instead, she focuses on the cake (chocolate layered with raspberry buttercream, baked by Sookie) and the festivities (sleepover replete with John Hughes movies and representatives of the orange-cheese food group).

A week before the main event, Chris leaves a message on her cell phone. His schedule conflicts with the trip, he says. The firm needs him. He hopes she'll understand. He'll make it up to them.

He calls that night during the late news.

"Rory's asleep," she says, picking at the hem of her sweater and trying to remember where she left her rock-star belt (black leather, chrome studs, entirely inappropriate).

"I figured. Unless she's staying up for Letterman, trying to polish her monologue."

She's not in the mood for glib -- or this conversation in any guise, for that matter. "She's twelve, Chris. She's in bed by 9:00."

Lorelai's mind supplies a stock image of sleeping Rory, curled into a ball under a thick layer of blankets, her hair braided into a shining rope. Next to her bed, they've hung a corkboard. Tacked around the Harvard pennant, the Hello Kitty poster, and the science fair ribbons are postcards: postcards of Times Square and the Mona Lisa, the Spanish Steps and the blazing neon of Toyko's Akihabara District. Their flip-sides are tattooed with slashing Xs and swooping Os and Christopher's promises to write again soon. Every so often, he adds a story, ten sentences engineered to provoke Rory's bell-like giggle.

"I'll call her tomorrow, then," he says. "If that's okay. Around six."

"She waits for your postcards, Chris. She misses you." For a long moment, Lorelai hears only white noise: the hum of the refrigerator, the barely audible hiss of the phone line.

"I miss her too," he says quietly. "I miss you both."

"But you can't come for a visit." She blinks furiously, trying to banish the sudden moisture that's blurring her view. In her head, she hears klaxons wailing, the sound of disaster -- danger, Will Robinson!

"Lor?"

"I just -- I can't do this anymore. We can't do this." She hates this, how she talks to him and she's sixteen again, dragging her Princess phone into her closet where the dolls can't stare at her. She's too old for this John Hughes movie.

"We're just talking," he says, voice cracking.

Lorelai imagines his sad smile, the way his eyes crinkle at the corners, the way he balls up his hands when he's nervous. She takes a deep breath. "You should make it 6:30," she says slowly. Carefully. "Rory's painting sets for the eighth-grade play. She won't be home until at least 6."

After what seems an eternity, he sighs and tells her 6:30's fine with him. As she hangs up the phone, she notices movement outside: Luke, in his truck, plowing that afternoon's snow from her makeshift driveway. He gives her an embarrassed wave.

Lorelai manages a wan smile before she sinks back into the couch and closes her eyes, willing her mind to blankness. When it comes, sleep brings her neon-bright skies and honey-colored shafts of sun, endless highways and the salty smell of a nearby ocean.

When Lorelai dreams, she dreams of California.

--


End file.
